


today i'm thinking about the things that are deadly

by intertwiningwords



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Gen, Holden Has A Murder Kink (Kinda), Potential Serial Killer Holden, Sociopath Holden Ford, This Is Gross! Holden Is Gross!, nameless female bartender girl i wrote i am free this friday if u wanna hang out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwiningwords/pseuds/intertwiningwords
Summary: holden is worried that he brings his work home too much.





	today i'm thinking about the things that are deadly

**Author's Note:**

> warning - this is pretty gross and graphic both sexually and like, murder-y. no one actually dies though, it's just fantasies. b
> 
> holden ford, interviewing serial killers about their depraved psycho-sexual murders: hope this doesn't awaken anything in me
> 
> ok yeah i guess enjoy?????

It isn’t normal. He  _ knows _ this, and frankly, he never wants to believe any different. He isn’t like the people whom he studies, interviews, and catches.

He isn’t like _them_.  But he does know that his fascination with them is something strange, something which he should keep to himself when meeting new people, especially women.  But he just doesn’t know how to shut up about it. 

The horrors of his job seem to follow him everywhere: the shower, the supermarket, the dentist, the bar. Every time he closed his eyes he pictured crime scene photos, ropes, and bloodstains and mutilated bodies of once lively and beautiful people (and it scares him, because he can't tell if it's worse to know what they looked like alive, or if he would rather let them become nothing but corpses).

No matter how much he drinks, or how many sleeping pills he takes, they always come to him, haunting him even off-duty.

Loud club music helps his mind wander for a bit, eyes scanning the dancefloor of girls in flared jeans and tight tops. He remembers meeting Debbie in a similar bar, how she approached him, when they fucked back at her apartment, how he wondered how it felt to have her helpless beneath him, what he could have done to her if he'd wanted—

“So, what do you do?” the pretty bartender asks, snapping him out of his head, passing him his glass.

“I’m with the FBI,” Holden replies smoothly, taking the glass with a small nod of thanks. He knocks back a gulp, relishing the way liquor stings his throat.

“Oh, really? I should have guessed by the suit,” she says, quirking a brow. “What do you do there?”

Before he can stop himself, it rolls off his tongue like water. “I work in behavioral sciences, studying violent offenders and their lives. I interview killers on why it is they kill.”

The bartender’s flirtatious smile seems to fade slightly, a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and disgust mingling on her face. “Wow, that’s…”

“Disturbing, I know,” Holden concedes, feeling a bit flustered that he'd turned her off.

“But interesting. How do you deal with all that?”

Holden holds up his glass with a small smirk. "Like this," he says, taking another gulp.

It isn’t much longer until she’s back at his apartment, gripping the sheets as he thrusts into her, watching the way her mouth opens, her eyes flutter shut, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. He brings a hand up to her heaving chest, rests it lightly over her heart, fingertips brushing her collarbones, and suddenly finds himself wondering what it would be like to feel her bones crush beneath his hands, to wrap them around her throat and watch her struggle, feel the life leave her, do disgusting things to her after she’s limp and lifeless.

Become just another psycho-sexual serial killer behind bars, like Kemper, like Brudos, like Manson or Bundy or any of the others he’s sat across from, listened to, empathized with, almost even related to.

It’s all for the job, of course, the empathy and the common ground. It’s simply an interrogation tactic, nothing more.

“Holden?”

“Yeah?” he asks, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re just staring off into space.”

He clears his throat. “Oh. Sorry, sorry.” It’s then that he realizes that he’s already come, and he barely even fucking noticed. Had it happened while he was imagining... _ that? _ “Um, did you…?”

She nods, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Be honest, I know most girls don’t. I don’t mind, um, finishing the job for you? If you want, of course.”

A pause, before she giggles softly. “Well, since you’re offering.”

He smiles back at her, slowly descending down her body, pressing kisses into her skin as he goes; one on her breast, another on her belly, and one to her thigh before he put his head where she truly wanted it, holding her hips.

A sociopath wouldn’t do something like this. They didn’t care about the pleasure of others, only themselves. Or would they? A manipulation tactic, a way to lure in prey, a promise of a man who gives as well as takes, who loves, who gives head because he values women’s orgasms as much as his own. A man who wants to pretend that all is fine, that he is normal and perfect and good, despite the atrocities he commits while his wife is asleep in their pretty house with the white-picket-fence.

He’s distracted from his thoughts again as she tangles her fingers in his hair, thighs squeezing his shoulders.

Crime scene photos emerge in her mind, mutilated uteruses and vaginas and breasts, a hatred for the very existence of the female biology, hatred of what cannot be had or what created something they can’t stand to see in the mirror.

His eyes open, seeing a body with no blood or scars or missing parts, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief right against her. Her fingers tighten, a moan slips through her lips, toes curling.

She leaves before the clock reads one in the morning, leaving Holden in bed alone, no Debbie or girl from the bar or anyone to distract him from the thoughts in his head.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s never felt an urge to kill anyone, not Debbie when she left, or Bill when he pisses him off more than words can say, or even sitting across from disgusting people like Speck or Kemper, he can’t bring himself to wish them dead, let alone take matters into his own hands.

So why does the thought of a throat, a knife, a rope in his hand make his heart speed up, and even makes his cock twitch, the idea so horrifically intoxicating, he can’t seem to shake it?

He rolls out of bed, striding to the medicine cabinet and popping two sleeping pills, washing them down with wine.  God, this isn’t normal.  He has to stop bringing work home with him, or else it will swallow him whole.

And maybe other people will get hurt too.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! this was my first attempt writing something like gross and creepy like this, but i've always wanted to write more horror/true crime types of themes, so this was a nice little start!!
> 
> feedback in the form of kudos/comments is very much appreciated!!
> 
> thank you xoxo


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